The name on his lips
by Sable a.k.a. Psychobitchua
Summary: War, knights and a bit of rude kind of romance.


Title: The name on his lips.

Author: psychobitchua

Email:

Rating: R for violent scenes, slash

Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot

Disclaimer: I don't make money, this is just an expression of my impression from the movie (one of many and many ones).

Feedback: pwwwease, it's really important whether it's good or bad.

Notes: this is a PG version. Kinda something is missing there, in the middle, huh? lol But I'm always respectable to the rules.

Mist and stones are the only wealth of a king without kingdom. Open the gates for the king of battles, let him take a look at his property. Watch him ride alone into the flow of shades of grey, blue and green rising to the skies. Dead bodies, forgotten names of friends, armor and horse are all he keeps in his invisible treasury. Maybe sometimes he takes it all out and plays with it like a greedy rich ruler. Maybe he tries to see faces in the mist, shadows moving over and full his wishful soul with knowledge and understanding. King of nothing, too close and devoted to his knights to be Romanian, too distant from their beliefs aside the battlefields to stand in one row with them. Man who existed once. Man who was so lost and empty inside that he found another single God to believe in. Warrior who is jealous of his opponents time after time. They die with someone's name on their lips. On sleepless nights inside his chamber he tries hard to find such name for himself. Sun changes moon, and with the sword in his hand he has nothing again. There is one name, though. But he is afraid to print it over his lips, this is pagan fear and it must not have place inside his heart, he knows, but the strongest person of all ages will brake watching his special something will dissolve inside nothing. He carries the name inside his heart, but never thinks of it. Fooling God... Because he knows once he mentions it, the owner of it will be taking away. Unlike him, God remembers every face covered with the mask of death his eyes had seen. He knows.

Tristan was the man who called him "king". He still does sometimes with the highest degree of assurance. They tell different stories about him, fairytales and almost legends. They say he knows future, not has visions or practice magic like woads inside the darkest forests, he just knows. Arthur only can say he is a sword, not a warrior. Warrior comes home after a battle, puts his armor into the corner, claims his woman like he claimed tens of villages, plays with his children and drinks wine. Tristan's existence is a battle to which he is always ready, he doesn't know another way to exist. He is cold like a blade and dark like blood on it, he is silent like a sword penetrating the enemy's body. But when he speaks, he speaks truth. And when he calls Arthur "king" without any hint on a joke although Bors is laughing like mad witch dancing around the fire, it's worth trusting.

Lancelot pushes his way to the fireplace, kicking Romanian soldiers harder than he supposed to if he was joking. He has past unlike some others, he remembers and cherishes it. His hate for those who had taken it away from him burns with urgency of another fallen city. His hate can't be drown inside the blackness of his eyes. He is paler than usual, lines between his front teeth are filled with blood. His blood and blood of fallen ones. He sits down on the bench heavily and allows himself to loose iron covering for a short like a falling star's splash moment, closing his eyes. Chain armor is removed and fabric undershirt's sleeve is cut with the sharp knife. He tears a piece of it with his teeth and carefully makes some kind of a rope from it. Repeating makes you stronger. He knows it better than anyone. Continuos deaths of your friends make your tears dry off, continuos fear makes you a fierce cornered animal who won't give it up without a fight, continuos pain makes you forget it's name. He chuckles carelessly as his eyes cross with woman ones. She watches him curiously and definitely he's got her at his mercy. Lancelot isn't a fairytale wizard, but he possesses a great power over women. And he doesn't really know what he does to make them fall for him, follow him to the edge of this world, to eternal colds and red-eyed wolves bigger than a good horse. He turns the rope around his shoulder above the three days old wound. Smell of it, hidden with the armor, is as disgusting as enemy blood's smell. If he wasn't who he was he would be surprised and terrified by the feeling that follows when he forcefully yanks the rope with his good hand. Stinking yellow-white pus mixed with thin streams of blood bursts out and leaks down his arm to the floor as it breaks the thin wall of dried rotten fluid of decay. He can stay this and things that are much stronger and unbearable. The fingers of his good hand start to jump, but he holds the rope tight. Until pus is changed with fresh bright red blood. He allows himself to breath out deeply. Woman is gone quicker than he could think. Her stomach couldn't take the view so casual and expanded. Lancelot chuckles to himself and takes one of his swords down, putting the tip of it inside the fireplace. Sharp blade turns burning red enough. Bors says something funny (or maybe something smart because it happens much rarely and really amuses all around) and drunk crowd explodes with laughter. The smell of wine and bloody saliva fills the air. He is grateful for noise; last time he had done this he broke two upper teeth and couldn't bite back a moan. And now he is left alone with his wound and can allow pain to take over him. For a very short moment, shorter than a blink of an eye. He doesn't pray, doesn't take deep breaths in, doesn't let himself to realize, just grabs a sword out of the fireplace and presses burning hot blade to his wound. It seems like the drums of his heartbeat will kick the eyes out of his head. Dinning room, its torches, laughing whores and drunk knights start to lose their contours. It is like sleeping before a battle when sleep is not really a sleep, just a haze cape over your eyes, magic obsession through which you can see the brightest pieces of reality. Tristan says pain is a maid dressed in black flowing clothes which are not dress; it's rivers of drying blood flowing down her body. He says he is addicted and almost in love with her, so addicted that he would marry her. Lancelot feels maid's cold palms atop his shoulders and he also feels them dragging him down along with her, carrying him into agonizing coupling. But something hard stops her.

Hand wraps around Lancelot's chest bringing him back into upward position, carefully, trying not to damage his shoulder, it tears him away from greedy hands of black maid. Another hand struggles with his fingers holding the sword and finally successes in braking the stone grip.

"Enough of this". Arthur says quietly.

Lancelot's hand had turned into flame itself. Pain eats flesh like a hungry beast, it doesn't leave any chance for it to move. It will hang helplessly like a scourge and knock against his armor tomorrow. That is why he wished to train his both hands when he appeared before the eyes of an old Romanian soldier for the first time. Their tutor mocked at him until his laughter turned into bloody coughing, streams of blood leaked down his beard, but he still was laughing. Warrior with the sword in his left hand is forced by circumstances, warrior with two swords is just a stupid jester. Then Lancelot asked to tie his right hand to his body and attacked old man. He of course lost, but tutor admired animalistic rage, faith and desire and was forced to agree.

Hands leave him and he is grateful. Little by little he starts to recover as Arthur stands in the shadows and watches him. Arthur never joins their loud celebrations. Only when they gather to remember another fallen friend. He doesn't belong here, he doesn't belong in his chamber either. His place are shadows and mist. But Lancelot always feels his presence with his skin, when their leader appears in the shadows inside the mad dance of torches flame to take a quick look at his knights.

"You should go". Arthur adds. "I want you to sit straight in the saddle tomorrow."

"My horse..." Lancelot's voice is close to normal, but pauses between words are just a bit longer. Arthur notices it of course. "Is laming. Not hard, but I need to check it. If it falls..."

"Go."

This is not an order, but close to it. Lancelot raises and makes a few experimental treads on shaky legs. With every new step force of habit makes him stronger. He walks past Arthur into the dark corridor into his chamber.

Distantly, he hears Bors' voice and is really surprised to see him right behind himself, speaking emotionally. Judging by crimson color of his pumpkin-like head, his speech was as long as army's leader before the fight.

"... special. Your saddle is no match to my saddle. But new one is the same size as yours. It's uncomfortable..."

"Uncomfortable – this is when your best friend's children look alike you". Lancelot squeezes Bors' shoulder and closed the door to stop the river of questions.

He is awaken again this night. It's not enemy drums, not horns, not war-cry. It is softer, much softer comparing to the things he got used to during his life. Rough fingertips trace the lines of his face, carefully, as not to break the mask of tired deep sleep. No matter how deep and tired sleep is, this always wakes him up. Touch traces would be ticklish if the skin of his face wasn't rough itself because of enemy's sword, hard wind, or rain, or snow, or dirt. They say Lancelot is not even a pagan – he doesn't believe in any kind of God or higher spelling. But they do not know he does believe in these rough fingers, touching his face, so different from rough shaking each morning. He would think it was a dream, always repeating dream if he wouldn't feel these fingers all over his body in the morning. Every touch is printed with invisible paint on his skin. His eyelids begin to tremble, but surprisingly soft fingers that were made for holding a sword's handle soothe them. Lips follow. Bitten to blood, cracked from sun they touch his brows, his cheeks and the line of his jaw. His eyes are still closed, but he tries to find out where the new kiss will touch him to meet it with his own lips. He forgets about the pain as he pushes up on his elbows and instinctively captures the kiss. Once his lips merge into one with those kissing him back, he opens his eyes.

Dim light from the torches outside, speeded up with echo of drunk singing and yelling, pours onto Arthur's face. Vision adds up the fire from what Lancelot feels as his lips become warmer and moist. Arthur's hot breathing along with his tongue claim his mouth and warmth leaks down his veins, giving him strength to caress that tongue with his own, to capture those lips between his own and give all of himself to that long hungry forbidden kiss. It's more exhausting than any wound, it takes him not only physically, but emotionally too.

"Lay down". Leader breathes out, ripping himself out of their lips and tongues' madness.

Even without air inside him, Arthur reaches up and kisses Lancelot not as strongly as before. It is the proof of feelings he can never name and the point in the end of this night's story. He helps Lancelot to lay down on his back, watching as tiny white stream leaks down his hip. He let his hand be captured with sweaty dark curls again, soothing his lover, who is breathing too heavily due his wound. His breathing calms down little by little, and head rolls down on Arthur's shoulder.

For those couple of hours before sun will explode with blood in the skies, scaring all the gods there, no matter who they are, his emptiness inside is filled. And he does have the name to print on his lips when he dies, he just is too afraid to say it aloud. He will say when it's time to rest forever, but now he thinks he won't play with destiny.

THE END.


End file.
